


Liquor Store Love

by chibajun, nanianela



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Flirting, Grumpy Old Men, Liquor store au, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-11-22 19:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11386575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibajun/pseuds/chibajun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanianela/pseuds/nanianela
Summary: Stan Pines picks up a cashier job at a liquor store for some extra cash, and he works the grueling graveyard shift starting at 2 am. Alcoholic mad scientist Rick Sanchez is his most frequent customer.





	1. Chapter 1

Stanley begrudgingly lifted himself out of bed with an annoyed grunt. Eyes still half closed, he sporadically slapped at his nightstand in a desperate attempt to shut off the screaming alarm. When it finally went silent on possibly his tenth try, he sighed and stretched, sitting up in the complete darkness.

It’d been a long time since he’d had to set an alarm like this. Alarms weren’t needed for his usual heists and scams, but money was too tight for comfort and the local liquor store was the only place of employment that showed no objection to Stanley’s grimy record. He trudged his way over to the brimming coffee pot he’d set up before hitting the hay and groaned when he read the clock on the stove - 1:37 AM.

He'd signed up for the graveyard shift because the manager was desperate to fill the time slot, and Stanley figured he’d have to interact with fewer assholes if he worked in the middle of the night, anyway. He took a swig of coffee directly from the pot and then rubbed his sleepy eyes. He winced in pain, temporarily forgetting about the black eye he’d earned as a result of last night’s bar scrap. He realized in hindsight that getting into a tussle the night before the first day on the job wasn’t the brightest of ideas, but he figured that at the very least it would make him look badass enough for customers to know he wasn’t someone they should mess with.

Ignoring the throbbing pain in his face, Stanley grabbed one of the many Hawaiian shirts strewn across the floor. He didn’t bother buttoning it up all the way - the unbuttoned, flirty, hairy-chest-exposed look reminded him of his glory days in the ‘70s, even if the hairs there were gray now instead of brown. Hey, maybe a bright and floral shirt like that would bring some distraction from the purpling color around his eye. He pulled on the first pair of pants he found in the messy pile that was his room and grunted as he struggled to zip them.

“This whole midnight snacking business ain’t doing me any favors, huh?” He mumbled to himself. With a sharp inhale, he was able to suck in enough to button his pants under his small paunch and headed for the door.

When he stepped out of his red DeVille he triple-checked that he had locked it; there was a suspicious air about the store, especially at two in the morning. The fluorescent strips of light rimming the roof of the store to illuminate the walls were painfully bright, giving the white edges a surreal sharpness against the night, like the a photo cut out and glued on top of a completely different one.  The light spilled out in a short radius before it was swallowed up into darkness, and it gave Stanley the eerie impression that he was a person deep, deep underwater, trudging up to the store along the sea floor. 

He swung the door open and a bell at the top chimed quietly. He felt his pupils contract painfully in a sharp rush, sheesh this store was bright. He squinted, and his grumpy and battered face was illuminated by the bright lights of the store's interior.

“Great, you’re here,” came a gruff voice from behind the register. “ ‘Bout time. I’ve been trapped in this shithole for hours.”

 _Welp, the employees seem pleasant._ Stanley sarcastically thought to himself.

“Here’s your nametag,” the man said flatly. “Take a sharpie and put your name on it. You told me you’ve done jobs like this before, so I’m gonna believe you and assume you can figure the shit out around here. Ya might get some weirdos in here at this time, good luck.” He waved to Stanley as he rushed out the door.

Stanley grabbed a sharpie and tried to come up with a good name to write down. He’d been running from state to state for so long to avoid the cops that he was running low on good aliases by now. Considering how many things he was still wanted for, he figured it wasn’t safe to use his own name just yet.

He thought of all the people he’d come across through his adventures, trying to narrow his ideas down to innocent-sounding classic old guy names.

_Albert? Nah. Frank? Too boring. Earl? Nope. Too old. Hal? Yeah, that’s alright. Nice balance there._

He scrawled “HAL” on the tag and pinned it to his shirt. He put his hands on his hips and grinned confidently.

_Extra cash, here I come._

He watched the door in anticipation, hoping that a some young foxy girl would find her way inside. Well, the next customer was certainly a woman, but that was pretty much where the comparison stopped. She was quite old with her grey hair pulled into a bun, and was probably a few inches shy of five feet tall, but even shorter because of her hunched posture. She took her sweet time cruising each aisle before choosing a very small nip of Crown Royal in honey. 

"For you." The old woman smiled sweetly at him and her weathered hand slipped him a single piece of candy, wrapped in green and red cellophane with yellow strawberry seeds. Stan thought better of putting it in his mouth when he unwrapped it and out wafted a faint, green puff of smoke that briefly formed a skull shape before vanishing. He scoffed and tossed it into the bin underneath the counter, with a loud clank against the side. Not today, lady.

Three hours passed, and still no sign of a single babe.

There had been a very pale, gaunt man who'd come in wearing a black turtleneck and bought a handle of Absolut, tomato juice, and a lemon. 

"Making some Bloody Mary's tonight, huh?" Stan asked as he rung him up. The man's stomach gurgled loudly the moment Stan said the word "blood", and he'd looked pretty sheepish about it. When he exited the store, Stan couldn't catch his reflection on anything.

"Huh," Stan mused, and rubbed his eyes. Must just be getting tired. 

There was about an hour where Stanley saw an influx of customers, most of whom were buying cheap alcohol after their clearly rough or exciting nights out. At first, he tried to imagine what their life stories might be, only for the sake of entertaining himself. He guessed what jobs they might have, why they were there, and where they came from. If he couldn’t pick someone up at this job, at least he would have some funny memories and stories to tell.

After a little while of doing that, he didn't really pay them much attention and just rang them up. He'd tried making some small talk to the customers at first, but that ended fast when he realized no one cared to talk to the liquor store cashier. He stopped caring or paying attention very fast. Hell, Stan was pretty sure he sold beer to two kids stacked under a trench coat. One of the hands sliding a bottle across the counter to him might have been sort of greenish in color, too, but it was probably just a trick of the light.

The time of night soon came where customers stopped showing up and Stanley tried to find anything in the store interesting enough to stare at for a while, just to keep himself awake. He counted the tiles on the ceiling until his eyes began to hurt from staring. He tried to mentally pronounce the names of the wines on display until it became too frustrating to entertain him any longer. After a few minutes of staring blankly in front of him, Stanley, having given up on expecting anyone to come in, rested his head on his arm and let his exhaustion take over.

Stanley’s eyes flew open when he heard the doors slam open. He snapped his head up to look down the barrel of a gun. “Oh, hell.” Stan found himself saying, he was still feeling groggy and cloudy in the mind from his impromptu nap, his greying hair was mussed and pressed flat on one side, and his mouth was drier than a desert. He couldn’t really process much of what was happening: for starters, the man behind the gun was definitely not human. He looked like an alien, with sickly green flesh, four red compound eyes like a gigantic housefly’s, and unusual tendrils hanging on his face where a chin should have been. Stanley put his trembling palms up and slowly backed away from the scratched up counter, too afraid to take his eyes off the man (Alien? Thing?) that was prepared to shoot his brains out.

“Hey, look pal, I don’t want any trouble. Just tell me what you want and I’ll hand it over.” Stan tried to sound firm, but his voice was weak with fear. Just because, he dragged his hand along the underside of the counter, searching for one of those secret call buttons that would notify the police or something like that, but felt nothing but a few wads of dried-up gum stuck to the underside. Great. _Peachy_. All that time he wasted, and he wasn’t even going to live to see the paycheck! Oh, hell no. His emotions quickly shifted from fear to building anger, and he could feel his palms itching as they balled up and curled into tight fists. If his twin brother was usually the “flight” part, Stan could always depend on his adrenaline kick to fully launch him into “fight” mode.

_Come on, Stanley, come off of it and let this creature take whatever he wants. You’re almost sixty years old. Don’t do anything stupid! You have a bad back, for fuck’s sake._

As a green, slimy claw reached for the register, the alien was instantly crusted over with icy blue in noisy crackles and froze in place. Stanley’s shock only added on to his fear and adrenaline-induced anger, and he couldn’t make himself move. He squeezed his eyes shut to forget about what he had just witnessed, and forced himself to breathe deeply. This was one of those night terrors people talked about, right? And he'd been seeing glimpses of sort of odd things all night. His body felt paralyzed, so maybe that was the explanation for what had happened. _Right?_ There was no way a creature like that could possibly exist.

When he opened his eyes, it would be the regular old store bathed in shitty fluorescent light, with the one panel flickering away in the corner, like always, nothing would be changed. Yeah, this was all just a really, really vivid dream. He slowly peeked open his eyes, one after the other.

The fly-faced green creature was still right there in front of him.

“Yeesh!” Stan yelped and his arms jerked up to shield himself behind his elbows. He stumbled far enough backwards to trip into the cigarette boxes at his back, and a few tumbled out to the floor. The alien’s barrel was still pointing at him, he was locked in place and captured in crystalline blue. White steam rose up and swayed off the top of the chunk of frozen ice.

Stan’s wide eyes landed on a skinny man with pole-thin limbs, with crazy, pale blue hair sticking up every which way. The old man nonchalantly walked past the frozen body with a complex-looking gun in his hand. The weapon looked like it couldn’t possibly be real, with a few flat orange disks in descending sizes along the barrel like something from _The Jetsons_ , and blue lights flickered in small square windows along the sides and handle.

“Christ, these guys are even taking over my favorite store,” The man grumbled, twirling the futuristic gun around in his hand like a practised cowboy before sticking it into a holster strap on the interior of his oversized white lab coat.

Stanley’s jaw dropped, and he gaped at the man like a carp. A cigarette packet balanced precariously on one of his shoulders finally tipped and fell with a faint smack to join the others scattered on the floor around Stan’s feet.

The man looked up at Stanley, a sour expression on his face as he scowled with his lower lip just barely jutting out. His eyes were lined with greyish-purple, and they gave away just how worn out he was. “What?!” He snapped at him.

“Did you just, uhhh-” Stan struggled to find the words at the moment. He opted to just gesture vaguely at the steaming alien encased in blue.

“Freeze him? Yep.” He hardly gave Stanley a second glance when he spoke, smoothing down the front of his labcoat and blue shirt. He almost seemed bored with the whole ordeal. How could he be bored?! This was one of the wildest things that had ever happened to him!

The older man sauntered over to a display and grabbed the biggest bottle of vodka for sale. He stopped and looked at Stanley when he passed by the counter, he playfully shook the bottle from side to side and Stan could hear it sloshing faintly in the neck of the glass.

“Heh, you don’t look the type to be scared by a little gun threat. Nice shiner ya got too, by the way. You know, yu-you actually look sorta familiar. But I’m on so-some pretty strong stuff here, so who the fuck knows, ya know?” He squinted at the nametag and a laugh punched out of his chest . “Hal?! Oh- _ouuuurp_ \- man, I definitely don’t know you. I’d never fuck with a guy with a name like that .” He chuckled to himself for a good few seconds. "Hal..," he snorted. 

Stanley glared back at him from behind the counter. Goddammit, he’d thought that was a good name at first. Well, some rubbing alcohol and a rag could wipe it away if he was desperate enough to change it again. Wait, why did he even care what this weird mad-scientist-looking old man thought in the first place? Stan thought back to that dexterous cowboy twirl he’d done to his gun earlier with those long piano-player fingers, and had to swallow back the enthusiasm that rose up from the depths of his chest.

 _Fuck, he’s_ **_cool._ ** _Alright, alright, and you have to keep your cool if you don’t want to completely blow this, Pines._

The blue-haired man laughed again and stifled a belch that rumbled deep in his throat. “Also,” he leaned suavely on the counter with one bony elbow, holding up the large bottle again in his left hand. His unibrow raised up on one side mischievously, that must have been his version of an arched brow.  “I saved your ass and this store about a few hu _-urpp_ -undred bucks. So, I’m taking this,” He lifted up the bottle of vodka in a cheers gesture. “-As a thank you. It’s pr-pretty much the least you could do.”

Stanley’s face was still frozen in an expression of confusion and shock. He took a step forward and felt one of the cigarette boxes crush underfoot. “I mean, uhhh, you’re the one who’s got the gun here, so I’m not gonna say no.”

“Great. See ya around, _Hal,_ ” He said with a snort. He waved flippantly to Stanley as he made his way to the glass door.

“Wait!” Stanley shouted after him, leaning as far forward on the counter as he could. The man spun around, shoulders hunched, his expression flat and his lined mouth sagging into a neutral frown.

“You kinda saved my ass back there. Can I get your name?” Stan asked, scratching at the back of his head of grey hair, still flat and mussed from his nap.

“Rick,” he said with just the slightest of grins lifting the corner of his mouth, shoving his hands deep into his lab coat pockets.

“Nice ta meetcha, Rick.” Stan found himself subconsciously smiling right back at him. Ugh, wow, this Rick guy was seriously one cool cat. Then Stan shook his head to focus and remember what he was going to say in the first place. He hiked his thumb at the gigantic alien frozen in a block of ice in front of him. “And, uhh, I can’t have a frozen monster right here blocking the checkout, ya know what I’m sayin’?”

“O-Oh. Right, duh.” Rick pulled that same freezing gun out of his inner holster again, and with a flick of his wrist spun the dial on the back, and the blue lights along the sides all changed to a bright neon red. Rick aimed and the gun blasted out a zig-zagging lightning bolt of red light, instantly shattering the ice block containing the alien and thousands of cubes of ice and frozen meat rained down across every aisle. One of the eyeballs thumped and bounced a few times before settling right in front of Stan, the cords of nerves extending out of the back of the eye starting to bleed a puddle of blackish goo on the scratched counter.

“You looked pretty bored earlier,” Rick pulled open the lab coat and stuck the gun back in the interior, but with no fancy spin this time. Stan really struggled to hide his disappointment about that. “Cleaning that up should give you plenty to do. You r-really shouldn’t be sleeping on the job, dumbass.”  

“Oh yeah?! Who ya callin’ dumbass, idiot!” Stan hollered back at him, but Rick was already gone and the door shut with a cheerful dinging of the bell. Stan could see him through the glass doors as he moved swiftly across the empty parking lot and further into the dark of the night, flashing the bald patch on the back of his head with his lab coat fluttering behind him. Rick took a deep swig right out of the bottle, tipping the bottom skyward, before he was swallowed up by the darkness.

Stanley found himself wondering about Rick while he tracked down every melting piece of ice and alien meat, shoving them into a black trash bag and mopping away all the evidence. There was so much about that man that seemed so intriguing. How in the world did he get those scrawny hands of his on a gun that froze (or blasted) people? And why did the whole act seem so normal, even mundane, to him? Could he be some kind of alien hunter or something?

Stanley spent the next hours of his shift pondering all this and more. He couldn't get the damn guy off his mind. Would he even come back into the store at these late hours again? Well, at least he couldn’t complain that his first day was uneventful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I love writing Stan as being a little tsundere, lmao. For some reason it fits, it's fun when he's grouchy. I hope you like this chapter, it was a lot of fun to write :D! And we have more awesome ideas planned for the next chapter, so I hope you're prepared for some grandpa shenanigans! -nanianela
> 
> Sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter up! We hope you like it, and the next one will be up faster than this one! Thanks for reading! -chibajun

The next morning really wasn't any easier, even though Stan was really hoping it would be. He still felt like his bed had a stronger gravitational pull on him than it usually did, and why did everything feel so much softer now than when he’d climbed into it last night?

He clasped his hands together on his stomach and heaved a sigh to the slowly spinning ceiling fan above. His heavy lids fell closed again. This bed was just too damn soft. Who cared if he got fired for not showing up? That stopped being humiliating the first couple of times it had happened, but he really did need the money…

What the hell? Usually the thought of those greenbacks, dough, that beautiful cold hard cash- that would be the thing that felt like the rush of caffeine to his system he desperately needed. He finally tried his usual failproof method: imagining the waxy, paper-sweet smell of bills, the crispness nearly giving the bottom of his nose papercuts. Sleep still kept trying to slowly swallow him like he was sinking into quicksand.

_ So... comfortable...  _

_ Rick _ , the thought very suddenly came to him, and Stan’s eyes folded open again. _ If you go, maybe you’ll see Rick again. _ Now, that got him into motion. Stan suddenly felt like he wasn’t nailed down to his bed anymore, and he swung his thin legs off the edge. 

_ This is stupid _ , Stan thought to himself. There were no guarantees the guy would even show up. What was he, a kid with a crush on the cowboy from an old Western all over again? Everyone had brushed it off as simple admiration of course, this was Jersey in the early 60’s he was talking about. Well, Ford seemed to know what was really going on. How did Ford always just _ know? _ Ford also somehow knew he sort of had a thing for pirates, too…

Stan got dressed and ready, and for once actually checked his reflection. He licked a stripe of spit down the middle his palm and smoothed down some of his stray hairs, fiddled with the collar of his shirt. He flashed a wide grin at himself, even though his teeth were looking kind of yellow nowadays. 

“Hey,” Stan held the grin and told the mirror, propping his elbow up on the sink and pointing at his reflection. His grin dropped and he clapped a hand to his face, embarrassing himself at his attempt to practice. It wasn’t like he was selling door-to-door anymore. He was tired of trying to charm others, and doing it so intensely for so long in his life had left him exhausted and grumpy, like he’d used up all his reserves too early. Screw it. He decided he was just going to be himself, and Rick - _ if _ he even showed up- could take it or leave it. 

Maybe he should have quit because of that alien that tried to rob him last time, but as Stan settled in behind the checkout and sipped out of his mug of coffee he’d brought from home, he realized his life was so boring sometimes that he didn’t actually mind it. The struggles of dealing with the inconvenience seemed like a small price to pay compared to the excitement he gained from the experience. It certainly beat dealing with the mundane day-to-day grind he’d been subjected to his whole life. Plus, he’d met someone cool for his troubles, right?

His coffee mug had drained a long time ago, just a ring of backwash he wasn’t going to touch staining the bottom, and still no sign of that blue-haired scientist all night. There had only been a few customers since he had clocked in, and Stan was bored out of his skull once again. He checked his watch, even though he doubted the syrupy movement of time would have changed much since he last checked the time. Checking the time became habitual, not because Stan was curious of the time, but because it was the most entertainment he could provide himself. Only an hour and a half of his shift was left, and there was no way this Rick guy would stop by before Stan clocked out. Stan kicked himself mentally for having any faith that Rick would show up. There was no reason for him to even come back to that old dump of a place, he seemed like he had better places to be. 

It was seven forty in the morning now, and it felt like the aftermath of dawn but the world wasn’t awake just yet. Only twenty minutes were left for his shift, and Stan completely shoved his stupid hopes aside. The disappointment of not seeing Rick was balanced out by the exciting prospect of being able to go home and get some damn rest. He sold a construction worker in his neon reflector vest a 6-pack of beer, and the person waiting behind him stepped up to the counter immediately with loud crinkles dumped armfuls of colorful snacks onto it.  

Stan scanned each item, not even looking up to see who was purchasing it. He was too impressed by the variety and amount of snacks the person was purchasing. It wasn’t like he was still trying to look out for that crazy old man Rick again, or anything. He scanned a bag of potato chips, another bag of salt and vinegar chips, a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream infested with freezer burn so bad he could probably scrape it off and sell it as shaved ice, a paper bag of mostly crushed or crumbled mini powdered donuts with their yellow insides showing, red hot cheetos– wait a minute, that skinny-fingered hand was familiar...

Stan looked up to see Rick’s sheepishly smirking face. His eyes were very pink with the lids pinched nearly shut. His wild blue hair was even messier and spikier than Stan remembered. It added to the certain mad scientist look he was sporting, and Stan would usually poke fun at him for it, if he didn’t secretly find it a little attractive. 

Stan couldn’t believe it was actually him, and his words caught in his throat as his eyes widened with surprise. He wondered if he had started hallucinating from his exhaustion. He froze for a split second, before dropping his gaze in embarrassment and placing the bag of chips he’d just scanned back onto the counter with a plasticy rustle. He’d missed his chance to say something first, and felt dumb that he’d been so taken so aback that he hadn’t been able to form words. Still, Rick looked so high that he probably hadn’t noticed. 

“Heeey, Hal. Hally–hh-halitosis.” Rick shoved another pack of neon gummy worms at Stan, who scanned them with a grunt to cover up the chuckle he desperately needed to hide. Where was this kind of entertainment when he’d needed it in the middle of his shift?

“Wh-what, never heard that before?” Rick followed up, seemingly impressed by his own joke, and shoved Stan a yellow pack of Juicy Fruit gum from the impulse buys shelf just below the checkout. His unibrow crumpled and he studied Stan for a drawn out moment, tapping at his chin. It seemed like Rick knew maybe he was going by an alias, or maybe Stan was just being paranoid.

Stan just grunted again, not looking up from the items as he shoved them haphazardly into a paper bag. If any of those delicate powdered donuts were actually still whole, they certainly weren’t anymore. 

Rick scrubbed at the back of his head, his eyes drifting and going sort of cross-eyed. Some drool trickled out of the corner of his mouth. “Wh--what were we talking about again?” Rick rubbed his eyes and grabbed yet another impulse buy, some orange tic-tacs, and Stan scanned them with a cheery beep. It didn’t seem like Rick cared much about what he was buying anymore. 

“You’re high as a kite, Rick.” Stan dropped the mints into the brown paper bag with a crinkle. 

Rick laughed at that. “You-you remembered my name, huh? Cute.” 

Stan prayed he wasn’t blushing. “Can you hurry up? I got customers in here!”

“Pssht. Where?” Rick rolled his eyes, indicating with an open palm to the completely abandoned store with the flickery light in one corner, and slowly slid another pack of mint green tic-tacs to him like he was playing a winning card, fingers perched and spidery. “And  _ hello?  _ Can’t you see I’m not done here?” 

Stan scanned it with a scowl, contrasted with the cheerful beep. “Got the munchies, huh?”

“You think you’re soooo smart, huh wiseass? Helen Keller without her-her head c-coulda told me that.”

“Okay, but, if she doesn’t have a  _ head _ , that already means she’d be deaf and blind, so doesn’t that mean it could just be...  _ anyone _ without a head? Like– what difference does it make that it’s a decapitated Helen Keller if-” Stan shot back, his voice raising to boisterous levels like it usually did when he argued for fun.

“Look, do you w-want some of this pot, or not?” Rick leaned in that familiar way of his up on the counter again, elbows digging into it as he leaned in close. He threaded his fingers together and used them as a hammock for his chin, his grin fox-like. Stan could smell that pungent marijuana scent on him from behind the counter. He was a little jealous of the pot-induced bliss Rick seemed to be experiencing. 

“What?!  _ No! _ What, are you trying to get me fired?” Stan shoved the paper bag at him dismissively. “Get outta here. Pot is for kids and burnouts, anyway, not old men like us.”   

Rick just smirked and slipped him something in the way that only people who’d done street dealing in the past knew how, and Stan knew he had no choice but to move it discretely up his sleeve. Stan stiffened: Rick had been a pusher sometime in his past, too? He never would have guessed, someone smart enough to make inventions and weapons like that didn’t seem like they’d ever have to scrape by at the bottom of the food chain with dealing.

“You’d be surprised, Hal.” Rick took the bag and hugged it into his rail-thin arms, that stupid smirk plastered on his face the entire time. “It’s still just as fun as it was back then. It-it’s better now, actually.”

Stan let curiosity get the best of him and let whatever Rick had given him drop into his palm to give it a look. It looked like a regular, triangular green nugget of the good stuff, except-

“Oh gross, this doesn’t look like weed! It’s got all these stupid flowers on it. I can’t smoke this stuff! This is junk!” Stan tried to give it back, but Rick took a large step backwards just out of his reach.

Rick rolled his eyes and laughed, as if this was the reaction he expected and he was waiting for this to happen. 

“It’s different from the Earth stuff. Just  _ tryyy  _ it. Y-You’ll like it, big guy.” Rick smirk was still just as strong as ever, then he shifted the bag to tuck it under one arm, and held up his other hand palm up and beckoned with a few flips. “Or, yu-you know what, you can just  _ give it back _ .” 

Stan shook his head and curled his fingers shut around the nug once again. It wasn’t like he got offered weed from another planet every day. 

“Y-Yeah. Thought so.” Rick’s smirk grew when he realized he was starting to understand how Stan ticked, and Stan kind of hated that look and silently fumed behind the checkout counter, feeling shorter than him, because he was. Rick had a good few inches on him, and it made Stan feel even more powerless in front of him. 

“Trust me, you could use it. You look like you want to punch the living daylights out of everyone all the time, Grouchy. Tell me if you like it, next time.” Rick’s smile finally loosened into something a little less hostile, but that could have just been Stan’s wishful thinking. He reached over the counter and gave Stan a friendly punch on the forearm, his knuckles pokey because even his hand was free of almost all traces of muscle and fat. 

“So, do I smoke the flowers? Or pick them off? Or-”

Rick was already out the door by the next time Stan looked up, and he was shoveling hot cheetos by the handful in his mouth as he walked away, munching on them loudly with that firetruck-red powder smeared across one cheek. Stan could clearly see the squarish outline of a bottle of whiskey at the small of his back when he turned around, shoved underneath his shirt and tucked into his brown pants. He could have gotten away with it if he’d been wearing his lab coat, which made it even more in-your-face. He had the audacity to try and shoplift, from  _ him? _ Stan Pines knew every five-finger-discount trick in the damn book!

Then, Stan realized. 

He didn’t just shoplift the whiskey-- he’d actually distracted him enough that he hadn’t paid for any of his dozens of snacks! Stan realized the checkout was incomplete, the total cost blinking back at him, unpaid. Stan groaned and cancelled everything with a few angry jabs of his finger. He was impressed by Rick’s skill - he must do this pretty often if he could pull it off so well while absolutely baked. 

Stan watched as the last of Rick disappeared across the parking lot again in the new sunshine, fondly chuckling to himself and shaking his head at the sheer ridiculousness of their interaction. 

Wait, didn’t he say  _ next time? _ That wasn’t just wishful thinking, Rick had actually said ‘next time’, Stan realized.

“Hm,” Stan hummed aloud, amused by Rick’s antics and staring off into space for a second, unaware of the faint smile lingering on his face as he leaned into his cheek, elbow propped up. He then looked at what Rick gave him again, slowly rotating it pinched within his fingers. The pure whiteness of the flowers popped, they were so small yet they still had five distinct arms, but they seemed so tiny and delicate. They were actually kind of… beautiful?  

Stan snorted and transferred it into his front pocket instead. He’d decide later if he’d really try and smoke the extremely suspicious stuff. But if he didn’t, Rick would probably ask him how it went, and he had no idea if he’d be able to fudge enough about a high that never happened to fool Rick. 

And Rick knew Stan would pick up on that dilemma, too, the smart bastard. 

Stan chuckled aloud this time, running his hand down his mouth and chin before laughing a second time and nodding his head. Yeah, Rick was… one funny guy.

Stan only realized when he was tearing open cardboard containers to refill in the space behind the fridges. 

_ Holy shit. Did he just give me flowers? _

Stan held onto that thought for a moment. His conscious mind told him that it wasn’t that deep, that it was totally a coincidence, that it wasn’t like him and Rick would never make a gesture like that anyway. The back of his mind wanted to believe that the flowers were symbolic, and that offering them as a nug of weed was just Rick’s way of being as romantic as he could be.

Ugh, he’d only met the guy twice and he was already thinking about something dumb like “romance”. Yeah, he  _ really  _ needed to cut back on his time spent watching those awful daytime soaps, it was turning him cheesy too.

Stan had practically crawled home, and fell asleep face-first on his bed with his shoes on. He woke up groggily around one in the afternoon, eyes red and hair a mess, made himself some pourable eggs from a carton and spam from a can, and settled down in his boxers and undershirt with the meal in front of his rabbit-eared television. He’d completely forgotten about the little “gift” that Rick gave him, until he saw a bush sprouting white flowers on the television program and it triggered the memory.

Stan dug through the pockets of his discarded pants and found it again, but rubbed at his chin when he thought about how, exactly, he was going to smoke it. He hadn’t seen or had any of this stuff in a long, long time. He used to light up under the bleachers with the blonde, long-haired, tie-dye wearing stoners in high school or at at rock concerts he snuck into when he lived on the road, but it had definitely been a while. 

He finally decided to gut one of his cigars, dug some of the tobacco out, and shoved the intact nug inside the middle, tiny white flowers and all. It probably wasn’t the best way to do it and some of it would be wasted, but he figured it was better than throwing the thing away. He pulled a lighter from the drawer of his nightstand and lit the cigar. He closed his eyes as he inhaled, nervousness beginning to get to him and reminding him of the good old days when trying new drugs was commonplace. 

Stan relaxed, smoking through the first half of tobacco and knowing he hadn’t hit the surprise inside just yet. He could tell almost instantly when he did, it was strong as hell and even after a few breaths he could feel the floatiness, his thoughts began to race and jumble, his body melted with relaxation and he sank deep into his La-Z boy, sighing out a curling smoke cloud.

Rick must have put some kind of…  _ something  _ in this stuff that forced Stan to think about him, he was convinced, because all he could imagine were scenarios including Rick. 

He pictured him, those mile-long pole legs of his crossed at the ankles and dangling down from a barstool right next to him, flicking his wrist gently which made the remaining brandy in his glass spiral along the sides. Or, ordering fancy shots just for the two of them, the ones the bartenders poured out continually with the shot glasses all in one long line. 

He thought about the stunned look on his face when Stan proved that he actually could keep up with him. Stan felt a giddy feeling pass through him at the idea that _he_ could somehow impress a guy like _Rick_. 

Maybe they could shoot pool together. That would be fun, and Rick would probably be good at it. He seemed like the kind of person who was good at anything and everything, or at least could pick something new up nearly instantly. Young people always thought they were so great at everything, the two of them could probably get a winning streak going and knock those puffed up Youths down a few pegs. He thought about clinking beer steins together, foam and golden liquid spilling, Rick with a foamy mustache from it-- man, that would be so cute. The two of them would probably have a great time.

He imagined the man dipping in close to his ear, hand pressed suggestively to the small of his back with those long fingers splayed out, alcoholic breath tickling into his canal--  _ hey, want to go back to my place?  _ He was immersed in his daydream, he could nearly smell Rick and feel his spidery hand slip up his back to squeeze his shoulder. 

“Crap.” Stan hissed and held his cheeks, shaking his head and trying to snap himself out of it. He barely even knew the guy, he’d interacted with him for a total of what, fifteen minutes? he forgot how dreamy and sentimental he got when he was high, dammit. Now that the idea was in his head, he really wanted to take the stupid guy out to a stupid bar.

Rick came in the next night, too, at around four in the morning. Stan couldn’t help but break into a smile when he saw him, but tried to hide it behind his hand by pretending to itch his nose. The shift had been far more pleasant because he expected Rick to show up to ask him about the weed. 

“Soooo, how’d y-you like-- how’d it go?” Rick grinned sleazily, blinking slowly at Stan, his intelligent eyes boring into him and trying to figure out if he’d actually tried it, or if he was going to try and lie to him.

“Fine.” Stan grunted. “Uh, strong stuff.” 

Rick’s eyes lit up and he slammed both hands down on the counter with a sudden burst of energy, gripping down hard to the edge. “If you liked that, wait until you get a load of  _ this! _ ” He punched deep into his pocket and felt around, a manic smile stretched on his face.

“Wait  _ wait  _ no I don’t need to-”

Rick slapped what looked like a single temporary tattoo in a baggie down onto the counter, it had the an image of steal your face on it, Stan would recognize that red and blue skull split with lightning anywhere.

“You like the Dead?” Stan asked quietly, trying hard to force down his smile.

“Erryep. I just whipped those babies up yesterday,” Rick dug around in his pockets for something else, tongue peeking out. “I figured you were the type to like ‘em.”

“Annnd just picked up some of  _ this  _ shit to wash it down!” He laughed and placed another baggie full of a deep purple powder on the counter. 

Stan quickly clapped his hands over the two of them, hiding them from view under his palms. 

“We have cameras in here, dumbass!” Stan gritted his teeth. “Stop trying to get me fired! Do you know how hard it was to find a job that didn’t care that I went to prison seven times?!” Stan’s angry expression fell into one of regret. Crap, he didn’t mean for Rick to know that. Now he’d definitely hold that against him. 

Rick’s face fell for a split second, then he squawked out an unexpected laugh. He laughed again, his hands finding his stomach and pressing hard against it.

“Se-seven?! That’s impressive, _ Hal _ .”

“Put a sock in it.” Stan’s face involuntarily started to redden, and he shoved his hands to the edge of the counter. He was pretty much sure by now Rick knew he was going by an alias. “Take these back, I don’t fuck with acid or blow anymore.”

“Not what they are, but fine.” Rick rolled his eyes and took them back, and Stan leaned back and crossed his arms firmly over his chest. 

“Are you gonna buy something or what?!” Stan demanded, willing his humiliating blush to go away. 

“Oh Hal, you should know by now I never actually  _ buy _ anything from this shithole you call a store.” Rick toyed with the display of dangling bottle openers like a cat, they tinkled quietly as they knocked together. “Hell, you let me get away with stealing all those snacks right under that big, pink nose of yours.” He pointed a bony finger at Stan’s nose. 

“Oh yeah?” Stan shot back, curling his hands into fists. “Then I’ll- I’ll ban you! I’ll print out a security cam picture and draw a big red X over your ugly mug!” 

“ _ Psht! _ ” Rick scoffed and slipped his bottle into the interior of his labcoat. “Naw, you won’t. You like me too much.” 

Rick reached across the counter with his free hand and tapped at Stan’s nose with his pointer finger. “Boop!” 

Stan wasn’t expecting it, and it made him freeze in place, the touch lingering like it would have left a physical mark. 

“See ya around, Halitosis.” Rick walked backwards out of the store this time. He flashed the stolen goods again, letting the glass bottle peek just out of the edge of his lab coat, just to rub it in. 

“That’s not my name.” Stan blurted before he could stop himself. 

“Yeah, idiot, it’s called a  _ nickname _ .” Rick was about to turn around to go out the door, but Stan quickly spoke before he could.

“I mean, that’s not my real name.” Stan leaned far over the counter, over his arms pinned underneath him. “Uh. It’s actually Stan. Stanley Pines.” 

“ _ Stan _ ,” Rick parroted, like he was weighing the name out on his tongue, which he peeked out and ran along his top lip. “See, that’s a wayyy better name to jack off to.” 

Stan was left dumbstruck, and Rick just twisted and broke the cap’s seal with a loud crackle and tipped it back, opening the door up backwards with one of his shoulders, Stan’s reaction was too important to turn his back on.

“Wait,” Stan put up one of his hands to signal for him to stop. “Uh…” No, he couldn’t do this after all. Rick would shoot him down immediately, he was sure of it. “...You need to pay for that.” He sighed in defeat, he wished he could just spit it out.

“Stanley, come  _ on _ . What did I just say?! I don’t pay for anything from this dump!” Rick took another defiant swig.

“But...um. I’ll buy you a different drink.” Rick tacked on, the volume of his voice dipping down. He swiped nervously at his alcohol-shiny lips with his sleeve and a gross snort.

Stan didn’t reply right away, truthfully he was a little stunned. Naturally, Rick came back full force with snark. “You know, like, from a  _ bar? _ There, is that obvious enough for you, st-st-stupid?!” 

“Um. Sure.” Stan grumbled, dropping his eyes to avoid Rick’s. “Yeah. Why not.” 

“Why not? Why  _ not?! _ Bitch, I’ll show you the best damn time of your life!” Rick’s voice raised in volume, but his facial expression gave away that he wasn’t actually angry. Far from it.

“You’d better,” Stan played along right back. “Cuz if you don’t, I… get to ban you from this place. For life.”

“Deal,” Rick strode forward, offering his hand, and the two shook on it, grinning like maniacs at each other. Rick’s hand felt really small in Stan’s, and Rick squeezed it in a soft pulse before they let go.

“Friday?” Stan asked quietly.

Rick shrugged. “Whenever. Unlike you, I’m not exactly a  _ working _ man.” 

“Friday, then.” Stan smirked, and suddenly brought Rick’s opened bottle to his lips from below the counter. Rick’s eyes flew wide and he patted at his pockets, amazed that Stan managed to sneak it from him without him noticing.

“Y’know, back in the day, one of my nicknames was Featherfingers.” Stan waggled them at Rick and took another swig around his smiling lips. “We’ve got a lot to learn about each other, huh Rick?” 

“I look forward to that, Lee.” Without his drink anymore, Rick just shoved his unoccupied hands deep into his pockets, a non-toxic smile on his face for once.

Was that Rick giving him a cute nickname already? Stan was grateful that Rick had waltzed right out of the store, otherwise his emotions might’ve gotten the best of him and he might’ve said something stupid in response. He turned around to the blank wall, punching it lightly a few times with alternating fists in celebration, each punch accompanied by a word Stan chanted lightly under his breath- “Yes, yes,  _ yes!!! _ ” 

Friday couldn’t come any faster.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this awesome [art](https://conartist-bros.tumblr.com/post/166172070697/i-can-show-you-the-wooooorld-shinning-shimmering) drawn by conartist-bros.tumblr.com for this story! Thank you so much, we love it!!! :D


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